


From the Wreckage

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Die Hard (Movies), Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Banter, Cohabitation, Domestic Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-16 10:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16951941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: It's five in the afternoon on a Tuesday when Matt shows up at John's doorstep, backpack flung over his shoulder and a duffle bag in his hand.





	From the Wreckage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HYPERFocused](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HYPERFocused/gifts).



In John's experience, having to step up and be _that guy_ – risking his life, time and again, for strangers and a good cause, because he's in the wrong place at the wrong time and if he won't do it, then no one else fucking will – makes you lose something, every time. Things, always. Good health, usually. People, inevitably. The fellow cops who didn't make it. The friends he lost because they complain about seeing more of him on the news than in person. Holly. Jack and Lucy, to some degree, because John knows neither of them forgives him for always throwing himself head-first into danger.

It's like he told Matt: no one wants to be that guy.

Imagine his surprise when, for once, the whole goddamn hero shtick actually brings someone into his life instead of taking them away. Didn't see that coming. Even if that someone is a too-smart-for-his-own-good hacker kid with shitty taste in music who never stops talking. 

Point is, John didn't think he'd be seeing Matt again, once things had calmed down. Certainly wouldn't have blamed him for staying away. 

It's not the first time John was wrong about Matt, and he's starting to suspect it won't be the last.

#

It's five in the afternoon on a Tuesday when Matt shows up on his doorstep, backpack flung over his shoulder and a duffle bag in his hand. The way he's bouncing on his feet betrays his nervousness, even though he makes an admirable effort to look confident by meeting John's confused glare head-on.

"Hi," he says, and that cheer in his tone is so blatantly fake that John has to suppress an amused snort. "So. Lucy says you let yourself out of hospital against your doctors' advice."

John offers a grunt as affirmation. Lucy already yelled at him over the phone and threatened to send her mom over. He isn't sure if Matt's an improvement over Holly, but at least Matt's less likely to lecture him for being too reckless with his health and his life. 

"I'm fine."

Matt's eyes are drawn to where the bandages peek out beneath his shirt, dark stains clearly visible from where the wound is still oozing. 

John rolls his eyes at him. "I've had worse, kid. You can tell Lucy she doesn't need to worry, okay?" 

He wonders if he should tell the kid to stay away from his daughter, but he doubts Lucy would stand for her old man getting in the way if she really likes Matt. And anyway, Matt's not a bad guy. Not good enough for Lucy – but then, no one is.

"Right. Sure. Except, you know, Lucy told me you'd say that, and also that I shouldn't listen. And she kind of said she'd make me personally responsible if I left you alone and you hurt yourself. I don't know if you realize it, man, but your daughter is kinda scary and I really don't want to get on her bad side, so. Um. How about you let me stick around for a bit? You know, just until you're healed up. I promise, you'll hardly know I'm here."

This time, the snort breaks free before John can contain it. 

"I really doubt that, kid," he says. 

But he steps aside and lets Matt into his apartment and his life, casually, as if that's something he does a lot. Or ever.

#

Matt makes himself at home on John's ratty old couch, and it barely lasts a day before his computer shit occupies the entire table and some of the floor next to it.

John sits in the chair and watches the Mets crush the Nationals on TV, trying not to let the clattering of Matt's keyboard distract him. When he puts down his empty bottle, Matt clears his throat. John turns his head to look at him and instantly regrets it, the sharp pain shooting down in his neck making him wince.

"What?"

"Um. Should I get you another beer? Or better yet, something to eat? Painkillers, maybe?"

Jesus, is the kid for real? 

"I have a little hole in my shoulder but my legs are fine. Unlike someone else's." John gives him a pointed look. He didn't miss the careful, stilted way Matt was moving this morning before he planted his ass on the couch. Maybe his injury had healed up faster than John's, but he'd bet it's still giving Matt every bit as much trouble as John's shoulder is giving him. "I can get up and get that shit myself if I want it. I'm not a fucking invalid." 

Matt holds up his hands in surrender. "I know, man. I didn't say you were. Just, you know, I'm pretty sure when Lucy told me to come and make sure you're okay, she meant I was actually supposed to do something useful, not just sit around and do the same shit I could have done at ho—" He stops himself. The flinch flitting across his face isn't lost on John. 

"In my old room at my parents' place," Matt finishes, not meeting John's eyes.

Shit. Right. The kid's apartment got blown up. John had... well, not forgotten, exactly. Hard to forget something like that when you were in the middle of the fucking explosion when it happened, but he didn't really think about it anymore. Fucking painkillers, turning his brain into cotton wool.

He wonders how much about Matt being here is Lucy's none-too-subtle mother-henning and how much is Matt not really having a place to stay.

John offers a casual, one-sided shrug with his good shoulder. "Don't worry about it. You're keeping me company. Making sure I don't slip and crack my head. That's plenty. If I need you to play Nurse Nightingale, I promise I'll let you know."

On TV, the commentator's voice pitches higher as the Mets score a home run. John gets up and gets himself another beer from the fridge, setting a second one down next to Matt's laptop. 

Matt gives him what's probably supposed to pass for a glare but actually makes him look like an angry little puppy. 

John smirks.

#

When John steps out of the bedroom in the morning, Matt jerks up from the couch. He flails wildly, sending the blanket to the floor where it lands right on top of his little electronic gadgets.

"Who—? What—? Dude, you broke into the wrong apartment. John's gonna kill you." 

He doesn't even have his eyes open yet, but he's fumbling around, presumably for something to throw. It's amusing to watch until he grabs his laptop, and John decides he'd better say something and calm the kid down before that thing comes flying in his general direction and ends up smashing the window. 

"Relax, kid, it's me," he grumbles, low and amused. "Not a morning person, I take it?"

Matt curses under his breath, but his grip on his computer relaxes and he squints at John. "Jesus fucking Christ, McClane, what's wrong with you?! How late is it?" He shuffles around to check his clock, groaning when he sees the time. "Oh, come on. Who the hell gets up at five thirty? That's not morning! It's the middle of the night."

In the dim blue light of the early dawn, with his hair tousled and his cheeks flushed, Matt looks sleep-soft and rough at once, like all kinds of terrible ideas John knows better than to contemplate, and it takes more effort than it should to turn away.

Fucking hell.

He's been on his own for too damn long if he's getting a hard-on for some scrawny twenty-something who may or may not have a thing for Lucy. Doesn't matter that Matt's one of the handful of people John can stand to be around for a prolonged period of time without wanting to put a bullet through either their or his own head. Doesn't matter that, after the whole thing with the explosions and the shoot-outs and the almost dying, Matt somehow seems to have decided that he wants to stick around John rather than running for the hills like any normal person. 

Matt's young enough to be his goddamn kid, for fuck's sake, and John's not the kind of guy to have some stupid midlife crisis and pant after a pretty face who's two and a half decades younger than him and probably never even heard of Pink Floyd.

Except, apparently, he is.

And he know he's being unfair. Matt's more than just some pretty face. He's too smart for his own good, and braver than he'll admit, and surprisingly good company. All the more reason not to drag him deeper into the mess that's John's life.

"Hey, Earth to McClane, anyone home?"

John blinks, focusing on Matt's worried face in front of him and realizing he's zoned out for a moment. He wants to blame the Vicodin, but that's probably only half true. 

He bats away the hand Matt's waving in front of his eyes.

"Jesus, stop it. I'm fine. Just needed a moment."

"Sure. You realize that the more times you tell me you're fine, the less believable it sounds, right?"

John rolls his eyes at him. "Since you're up now, you can make coffee."

Grumbling in protest, Matt gingerly makes his way into the kitchen, still favoring his left leg, and for a moment John feels guiltier than he already did. He should have let the kid sleep in and get some rest. 

But when he gets out of the shower, the smell of pancakes hitting his nose and Matt's proud grin lighting up the room, he can't bring himself to regret any of it.

#

After all those years of living alone since the divorce and all the years _before the divorce_ when John secretly assumed he just wasn't made for cohabitation, it's surprisingly comfortable sharing his space with another person.

Matt's never-ending chatter soon becomes familiar, soothing background noise that John knows how to tune out when he needs to and focus on when Matt's actually talking about something important or when John welcomes the distraction.

"... but my mum says I should at least consider it," Matt finishes his latest ramblings.

John hums in response, not looking up from the newspaper. When Matt doesn't continue, he asks, "So, will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Think about working for Bowman."

"Whoa, I — I didn't think you were actually listening. I was just, you know, ranting out loud."

"I always listen," John lies. 

He shuffles the paper shut and turns to Matt with a flat, intimidating look that's 90% bullshit, but Matt doesn't have to know that. 

Over on the couch, Matt scratches his head and averts his eyes. "Um, that's good to know. Just, don't take everything I say seriously? You know me. Sometimes I just talk my head off." He chuckles awkwardly and now John wishes he _had_ always been listening to Matt like he said, because whatever he missed would probably have been excellent blackmail material. "And anyway, I don't know. About the Feds. Bowman's alright but... I'm not really the law enforcement kind of guy."

John's lips curve into a lopsided smile. "Gotcha. Like you're not the _hero_ guy, right?" He raises an eyebrow, and he knows they're both remembering Matt pushing into John's car when John went to get Lucy, remembering Matt taking up the gun and firing at Gabriel's henchman until he stayed down. 

"You think I should do it? Work for the Feds?"

"I don't know, kid. I think you should do whatever makes you happy." He grabs a slice of pizza from the almost empty box next to Matt before he amends, "As long as what makes you happy doesn't end up with some asshole making you write a code they'll use to break the country."

Matt huffs out an awkward little laugh. "I don't think Bowman's the type, but I was always shit at figuring out people."

John shakes his head. Anyone else, he'd assume they're fishing for compliments, but Matt? Beyond his skills on the keyboard, he genuinely seems to have no idea what he can do. 

"I think you're doing alright," John says wryly, and takes a bite out of the pizza.

#

Changing his bandage is a fucking pain because it turns out he can't wrap the stupid thing around himself without twisting his bad shoulder, and he can't twist the shoulder without upsetting the wound and tearing at the stitches. In hindsight, shooting that terrorist fucker through his own shoulder might not have been the brightest idea he's ever had.

He lets out a string of quiet curses and kicks at the shower wall at the rush of agony that runs through his flesh like electricity, white-hot and sharp. 

The plexiglass of the wall wobbles dangerously. There's a tentative knock at the bathroom door.

"McClane? You okay in there?" the kid calls from outside.

Maybe he wasn't being as quiet as he thought.

He closes his eyes and leans his head against the mirror above the sink, breathing through the pain. It takes him a moment to get enough air into his lungs to speak. "Sure. I'm fine."

The door is pulled open and Matt steps inside before John has the chance to pull himself together and straighten his back. 

"Man, I told you, _I'm fine_ is pretty much code for _I'm the opposite of fine but I'm too pigheaded to ask for help_." 

He takes in the scene in front of him, mouth thinning into a hard, disappointed line. "Dammit, John. This shit is what I'm here for. I know you're a big bad macho cop and asking the dumb-ass hacker kid you can't get rid of to help fix your bandage is probably an insult to your masculinity or whatever, but what's the fucking point if you tear your stitches and you gotta go back to the hospital?"

He sounds legitimately angry, and John's so taken aback that he doesn't even bother protesting when Matt steps into his space and pushes him to the right until he's sitting down on the toilet seat. He unwraps the bandage that John had haphazardly thrown around himself and starts doing it from scratch, properly, moving John's arms with gentle, cool hands that feel too damn good on John's skin.

"I'm not trying to get rid of you," John says, voice softly cutting through the tense silence of the room.

For the briefest moment, Matt stills, his hands faltering and almost dropping the end of the bandage before he catches himself and gets back to it, his face hidden as he leans across John to fix the dressing at his back. "Why aren't you? I mean, let's face it, I haven't exactly been much of a help here. All I'm doing is cramping your style and squatting on your couch and eating your food."

John snorts. "'Cramping my style'? Shit, kid, who the fuck talks like that?" He shakes his head, half-amused, half-exasperated, before quietly adding, "I don't mind. It's nice, okay? Having you around."

He doesn't do that shit – the hippie-ass touchy-feely 'let's talk about our feelings' crap – not with anyone but Lucy and Jack, and probably not even them. Not as much as he should, anyway. But he figures Matt needs to hear it more than John doesn't want to say it.

Matt pulls back, looking at John with dark, serious eyes, like he isn't quite sure if he should believe John, and John wants to hurt whoever made the kid – this brilliant, kind, brave kid – think so fucking little of himself. 

Matt's throat works as he swallows. 

"Okay, so." He visibly takes a deep breath. "I'm going to do something really dumb now. Probably dumber than that time I accidentally gave my algorithm to a bunch of terrorists. And I know you were mostly joking when you threatened to beat me to death, but... please don't beat me to death, okay?"

John has no idea what he's on about, and he's about to say so. But before he can get a word in, Matt's leaning in and his mouth covers John's. 

It's not much of a kiss – no more than a dry, brief press of lips against lips, bold and shy at the same time, like Matt's gathered all his courage to do this but doesn't really dare to see it through. He pulls back before John has a chance to react. 

Well. Damn. He can't say that he saw that one coming.

He licks his lips, trying to gather his thoughts and reassess their interaction in the light of this new development. 

"I thought you liked Lucy."

"What? No. I don't like Lucy," Matt protests. Then he clearly realizes what he just said and shakes his head. "I mean, yes, of course I like Lucy, but not _like that_. I like you."

"... 'like that'?" John parrots back, because what is this – kindergarten? 

He instantly regrets the mocking tone when Matt winces.

"Yeah. Sorry, I guess I shouldn't—"

Fuck it. It's still a fucking terrible idea, but John's entire life has been a series of terrible ideas and most of them worked out alright, all things considered. He reaches up to clench his fist in Matt's stupid _Star Trek_ shirt and pulls him down into another kiss. It's the opposite of the first one: all teeth and tongue and hunger and want, pent-up desire and unleashed intensity that's been burning under John's skin for longer than he'd care to admit. 

Matt's lips open in a silent gasp, and John uses the opportunity to lick into his mouth, a dirty tease he has every intention of following through. His hand comes up around the back of Matt's neck, angling his head just right, and the broken, needy little sound Matt makes goes straight to John's cock.

He eventually breaks away because he's not thirty anymore; his lungs aren't what they used to be and they're screaming for air. 

Matt stares at him with wide, glassy eyes and kiss-bruised lips. It's a good look on him, John decides. He still hasn't let go of Matt, fingers curling into the stupidly long hair at the nape of his neck, soft and silky against John's touch.

For once, Matt seems to be at a loss for words. It only lasts about a minute, but that's at least fifty seconds longer than under normal circumstances.

"So," he says when he's found his voice again. "Is this a thing?"

For a question that's about as vague as they come, it's fucking loaded.

John shrugs. "It can be, if you want."

Matt scoffs. "Jeez, McClane, you sure know how to make a guy feel wanted. Could you sound any less enthusiastic?" 

He doesn't shake off John's touch, though, nor does he put any distance between them, so John figures they're probably on the same page. 

He leans in again, letting his teeth graze Matt's lower lip. Without letting go, he stands and pushes Matt backwards, crowding him against the shower wall as he brings their lips together again. One of his hands settles on Matt's hip, fingertips mapping out the slip of warm skin between where his shirt has hitched up and the waistband of his jeans, and John presses closer, taking care not to put any pressure on Matt's injured knee.

This time, when he pulls back, both of them are a little breathless. 

John raises an eyebrow, lips curling in amusement. "Enthusiastic enough for you?"

"I don't know, man. I'd give it a seven, maybe an eight. Try again maybe, really put your back into it?" Matt's clearly struggling to stay serious, but he loses the fight to keep the smile from his face. 

"Smart-ass." 

John gently swats at his hip, drawing forth an indignant yelp that's every bit as fake as John's annoyance. Then he proceeds to show the kid what exactly it means when he _puts his back_ into something. 

Good thing Matt's proven that he can handle the heat.

End.


End file.
